American - Lana Del Ray

She was the best, the quickest, and yours. You still couldn’t believe your luck, knowing that everyone wanted to be in your place. She called other girls pretty throughout the whole city, playing with their fantasies, but back then, in that bar, she chose you. That night was the first time you tasted the wild and crazy feeling she gave you.

You were pulled back to reality by the sound of the buzzer, signaling that someone had scored. As you looked at the rink, your eyes immediately locked with hers, she always did that. Every time she scored, she looked at you, to let everything calm down for a second. But it was over quickly, she had to keep playing. After all, she was going for the World Cup.

You watched the match, noticing how the others tried to compete with her, but they couldn’t. The whole time, you gripped your chair, your eyes following her every perfect, mature movement on the ice.

Then, it happened, the signal that the game was over. In that moment, everything froze. She had just won the World Cup. She was by far the best on her team, and it was obvious that they owed their victory to her.

She stopped mid-movement, staring up at the scoreboard in slight shock as she tried to catch her breath. Within seconds, she was at the edge of the rink, near the VIP section. As she reached you, you practically jumped up to get as close to her as possible. She immediately wrapped her arms around you, lifting you off the bleachers and pulling you onto the ice. It wasn’t allowed, but nobody cared in that moment.

She held you tightly, pulling you as close as possible, letting out a scream of victory before spinning you around like a child. Tears welled up in your eyes as the reality of the situation hit you, you could almost taste it. You kissed her, with all the cameras focused on both of you. Reporters called her by her usual nickname, "the young, dope, and proud American," as they all scrambled to get the best view of the two of you.